Down These Green Streets - Launch party

There are moments in a writer's life when all the head-scratching, table-thumping and grimacing at the calendar (as deadline looms) that it all seems worthwhile. They are nearly always in the pub ... as the recent launch of Down These Green Streets proved.

The scene: Dublin's Turk's Head. Yes, there was a proper bookstore launch where Eoin Colfer opened the proceedings with a laugh-riot speech, but it's the pub-scene we're most interested in at Pusher Towers.

So, there was the ever-a-delight-to-hang-with Dec Burke sharing a pint and a gag with the Guvnor Ken Bruen on one side of the room and myself and Gerard Brennan at the other - Ger probing me for potential liable suit re' my DI Rob Brennan. (No Ger, you're much better looking than Rob, as you know!).

Mr Bruen was on particularly sparkling form, dropping a request for the assembled to reveal their life's regrets! Don't think I'm detailing those here, what goes on in the Turk's Head stays at the Turk's Head. Particularly nice to see Ken again, though, because the last time we met (the London launch of Cross) I was an unpublished wannabee and he couldn't be more effusive in his encouragement. Hollywood success hasn't changed him a bit. Luvly fellah.

Eoin Colfer kept the laughter going round the table, and even managed to buy a copy of Truth Lies Bleeding on his i-Phone so if going on the piss being tax deductable wasn't enough, that made the night for me.

But enough of this gonzo nonsense; it was work, for crying out loud! Down These Green Streets is a collection of Irish writing - the Celts are leading a charge around the globe at the moment, so we need more of this kind of thing. The book is a detailed collection of essays, interviews and short fiction. The contributors include big-hitters like John Connolly, John Banville, Ken Bruen and Alex Barclay. I haven't got my reviewer's copy yet (NB to editor) so that's about as detailed as I can get here, but there is an extensive description on the publisher's website:

"Is crime fiction now t he m o st relevant and valid form of writing to deal with Modern Ireland in terms of the post-‘Troubles’ landscape and the post-Celtic Tiger economic boom? As the first book written on this topic, Down These Green Streets is both

detailed and diverse, with each chapter providing a new author’s approach and discussing a different aspect of Irish Crime Writing. For example, Declan Hughes focuses on the influence of American culture on Irish crime writing, while Tana French reflects on crime fiction and the post-Celtic Tiger Irish identity. Down These Green Streets is for both the academic and the general reader. It also contains an introduction written by the influential Michael Connelly, and an afterword from Fintan O’Toole."

If that isn't enough to have you reaching for the visatabulous, there's a foreword by Michael Connelly; an introduction by Professor Ian Ross of Trinity College, and an afterword by Fintan O’Toole.

Down These Green Streets contributors are: Adrian McKinty, Alan Glynn, Alex Barclay, Andrew Nugent, Arlene Hunt, Brian McGilloway, Colin Bateman, Cora Harrison, Cormac Millar, Declan Hughes, Eoin McNamee, Gene Kerrigan, Gerard Brennan, Gerry O’Carroll, Ingrid Black, Jane Casey, John Banville, John Connolly, Ken Bruen, Kevin McCarthy, Neville Thompson, Niamh O’Connor, Paul Charles, Ruth Dudley Edwards, Sara Keating, Stuart Neville, Tana French, Tara Brady.

Down These Green Streets is published by Liberties Press, priced 19.99 Euros.

Put 'Er There by Justin Porter

The handshake is one of man’s oldest rituals. Unclear origins aside, you can see versions of it in nearly every culture.

It is used for everything from agreements to salutations among friends. It is considered extremely rude to refuse to shake hands without some form of excuse, be it an injury, or that hand being excessively dirty. In such cases, there is always an explanation offered should the reason no be obvious, for example, the right arm resting in a sling, or perhaps the hand is smeared with motor oil

*

“No charge, dog, you know that.”

The baggie rested in the palm of his hand like a golden egg.

“You sure?” He reached out a hand with two 20’s and 10 in it.

“Ma nigga. You know betta than that, AJ.”

“Good lookin’ out.”

“You wanna twist that up here? I got some killer new shit for the xbox, some rip a niggas head off and shit down his neck type shit, nah'meen?” His last word the South Bronx contaction of “Do you know what I mean.”

“Now (italics)you(italics) know betta than (italics)that(italics), killer.”

Deshawn shook his head and smiled.

“Thanks, bro.”

“You always was a paranoid fuckin' honkey. Welcome home, nigga.” Deshawn put out a hand and AJ gently slapped it aside, coming in and grabbing the other man in a tight embrace.

*

In African-American culture, or its more politically correct, yet subtly racist term, “urban culture,” the hand-shake has many variations. They can become very elaborate, but in most cases, it is a simple clasping of the hands, first with the palms and thumbs doing the gripping and then disengaging just enough to clasp with the fingers only.

Here variations are commonly in completion of the hand-shake, using both party’s fingers to snap, or the “pound” includes a hug.

Differences are often decided by closeness of the parties. It is worth noting that these hand-shakes are usually performed by men only, as the traditional greeting between men and women or women and women is a chaste kiss open one or both cheeks.

*

“Yo, AJ.” Call coming from across the street. Some nameless unmarked with two men behind the wheel, ever since getting hit in the face with that flourescent bulb, AJ’s eyes haven’t been what they were. He squinted but didn’t see. He kept walking.

Tires screetched as the unmarked flipped a bitch in the middle of uncoming traffic. He kept walking. He still didn’t know who it was. Best reason in the world not to find out. The car pulled alongside.

“Where you coming from, jailbird? Ya bitches house? I can smell that pussy from here.” The voice and accent was half-street, half official. Half-smooth, half bust down your momma’s door authority. It pointed at extreme, none-of-em-good contradictions. AJ looked and pretended to see them for only the first time.

“Why Officer McCarthy, how have you been?”

“Get in the car you fuck.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“You got dental insurance?

“I’ve paid my debt.”

“The hell you have. Get in the fucking car.”

The door echoed when it slammed.

*

In certain cases, such as when one party has been eating, a simple touching of fists or possibly for-arms is acceptable. Again, explanation is offered in situations where the reason is not obvious. The refusal of a hand-shake, or “to leave somebody hanging” is considered a sign of great and open disrespect.

*

“You remember my partner, Officer Ling?”

AJ met familiar impassive asian eyes in the rear-view.

“Of course, officer. How have you been?”

Ling didn’t answer and broke eye-contact.

“I don’t think he likes me, Officer McCarthy. What ever for?”

“Drop the educated speech, convict. Yo’ momma smoked too much rock when you was up inside her for you to sound that smart.”

“I got my degree while I was inside. English lit.”

“Shut the fuck up white-boy. That degree ain’t gonna help you re-attach you balls after I cut ‘em off and stomp on ‘em.”

He closed his mouth.

“You gonna do us a favor, AJ,”

“If I wouldn’t roll over to reduce my sentence before, what makes you think I’m gonna do it now?”

“How’s your brother?”

AJ frowned.

“I haven’t seen him yet.” His brother lived in manhattan. Smart and talented, he’d chosen to make music. Earned himself a scholarship to some university. Made his big brother so proud of him.

“That’s right. You outta touch ain’t ya? Just got out yestaday. What a shame you already in the shit again huh?”

“What?”

“Your brother’s locked up. Held pending a transfer.”

“What?” AJ mind couldn’t get in clear.

“Looks like he was trying to be like his big tough brother. Get himself some extra pocket cash at that fancy university of his.”

“What did he do?”

“Snatched with a lot of narcotic substances. Judge gonna make an example of him. He’s doing a full whack, federal time. How you like dat shit?”

AJ looked out the window. His heart shook. His brother with the face that was still sweet and those delicate fingers that plucked strings and made beautiful music.

*

Throughout history, the shaking of the right hand is a gesture of good-faith among men as it shows that the hand is occupied and does not hold a weapon. As a related comment, fencers traditionally shake hands with the left, as the right is often occupied holding the sword at the completion of a bout.

*

He hardened up.

“So what? He’ll be up for parole in no time.”

McCarthy looked sad with as much sincerity as the cheshire cat.

“Now, AJ, all them books and shit done fucked with your head, boy. You know what I can do with a pen and some paper? Unless I change something, your brother gone get his next degree from the same place you did.”

AJ thought about his brother in the place he’d just seen the last of yesterday.

“AJ, you left some unhappy people in that place didn’t you? Did some shit they never proved. Those is some hard ass niggas you upset. Who’d you shank again?”

“Nobody.” He replied automatically.

“What instrument your brother play?”

“Guitar.” AJ mind raced. There was nothing he could do. There had to be something. There was nothing. There was something.

“He’s gonna have to learn to play convict dick pretty soon.” McCarthy’s ebony skin split and another grin worthy of that wonderland cat. AJ’s world dipped and swayed.

“What do you want?”

“Deshawn’s whole stash. And a body to go with it. Do it right, bring us the shit and leave that no good fuck dead.”

“What do I get?”

“Your brother does state time, here. I tell my people inside to watch out for him. Instead of (italics)watch out for him(italics), ya feel me?”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“Settle for a handshake?”

“You know were the handshake comes from?”

“What? D-Block? Save the history lesson for later, mothafucka. You got work to put in.”

AJ reached, taking the offered hand. He resisted the urge to use an old trick to break the cop’s thumb, and got out of the car.

*

Deshawn was high. Full circle high. So high he was back to being low. Which is why AJ had to knock for ten minutes before Deshawn registered the noise, pick up the plate of rice and peas and answer the door.

“AJ? What you smoke that shit already? Its good right?”

“Naw, dog. Got something else to speak with you about.”

“You want some?” Deshawn shook the plate, not noticing when some of it fell onto the floor.

“Maybe some other time, bro.” AJ pushed past him into the apartment.

*

The quality of the hand-shake is also important. A hand-shake can contain an implied threat in the case of it being too strong, a way of transmitting aggression while appearing socially acceptable. It can also be a sign of insecurity on the part of the person offering the crushing hand-shake. On an opposing point, a limp handshake can be a sign on one man’s disregard of another, or perhaps inherrent weakness.

*

The whole building heard it.

Several loud, sharp pops. On tv the gun shots sound like gun shots. Not that ridiculous high pitched snap. Cause thats bullshit.

But ears in the neighborhood are tuned, educated. They recognized the sounds.

Somebody on the third floor was getting capped. Was somebody gonna call 5-0?

Are you fucking crazy?

McCarthy and Ling heard them too and smiled to each other with just a hint of worry. They relaxed when AJ came downstairs and threw them the high-sign, waving over to the alley around from the building. The place where people went to throw out their garbage, it was shielded from the sight.

AJ waited in the alley for McCarthy. He saw the tall muscular cop round the corner.

“Where’s Ling?” AJ asked.

“Upstairs in your boy’s apartment. Collecting the evidence.” McCarthy smiled.

“We good?”

“We good, jailbird.”

AJ offered his hand and McCarthy looked at it. Like he was deciding if he was done being a prick for the day. He decided to be generous.

“Ya did good, kiddo.”

Their hands slapped together and the bumped close in a half hug.

AJ locked his arm and had a tight grip when the shotgun barked, the sound coming from Deshawn’s apartment.

McCarthy tried to pull away.

“What the?” He started, unable to pull away from AJ.

AJ squeezed his left hand. The snub .357 went off, burning a hole through the cop’s abdomen.

As McCarthy died, AJ spoke.

“The origin of the handshake is a gesture of good faith. That neither right hand holds a weapon. Luckily I’m a lefty.”

“You fucked. Your ass gone right back inside.” McCarthy choked and wheezed.

AJ nodded.

“There’s more than one way to protect my brother.”

AJ stepped away and headed back to Deshawns to put his prints all over a murder weapon.

*

All accounts of handshakes treat it as a vital social interaction from which important information is derived. In business especially, there is great inference gleaned from the hand-shake. Some make decisions based solely upon what they learn from a handshake. But whether you learn a lot, a little, or completely ignore its connotations, there is no doubt that the hand-shake is an important, and long-lived social custom. So it would be wise to learn its nuances, if for nothing else than to forwarned against what it says about you to others.

Stainless by Nick Barlay

So charley’s walking headlong up the broadway in them pointy shoes, fast as his long pins can, arse out, hands in the thin pockets of his charity jacket, butt in his mouth where his tooth was, all slit-eyed from smoke, and his bullet head is sort of always a step ahead of him like an out of work pimp. Swings in the arthur, he does, straight up the jump for a short and a pint of jizz for chaser. He’s standing on the spot, the very spot where the bitch stood not three nights before, the bitch, that word going through him like a big idea, the bitch this, the fucking bitch that, you can even see his mouth move as he’s muttering to himself. Right on the money, charley’s thinking inside his brain, that word is, for what she done. Cos it seems she, the lat or the lith or the rom what charley is muttering about, has disappeared.

Mags the reg, or one of, is in her usual all blousey and blathery and double-chinned and charley flops down next.

Tell us a story mags, he goes. Make us happy.

Mags grabs his head and slugs him with her mouth, all grease and gob and her tongue poking through his missing front one. Elbow in her face is all charley can do before he retches.

Fuck was that? he goes, wiping her off of him.

Butter me up, goes mags.

Butter who where?

Well what story you after? she goes. Least I bring cheer. All the mis in the world…

No time for this, charley’s thinking, not this, not mags, not her mis.

Fucking bitch, he goes knocking back. Three nights and two days she’s gone. You seen her?

You drunk?

You seen her?

Two nights and a day ago, goes mags.

Where? In here?

By the jump where you just was.

Yeah? goes charley. Is that right?

Yeah, goes mags. With the two of them.

What two? goes charley.

You know what two.

Mags sharp as, sober as, when there’s truncheon in the air, and charley course he knows the trunch, swinging dicks out for wedge, running them jailbait lats and liths out of a council prop not two turns and a weave off the broadway. Easy pickings in the arthur. Except for mags. The regs talking fool’s gold. Except for mags. Now them two pop up like fright night working the arthur and working the broadway.

The bigger one, goes mags with her fleshy hands out wide, was chirpin her.

Yeah? goes charley scratching his elbow.

Yeah.

Was she…?

Was she what?

…chirpin back?

I don’t know, do I? goes mags. I ain’t Bill Oddie.

Charley down to the suds in a gulp and out the door not getting mags’s crack and not waiting to try. Up the broadway to oyzer’s kebabs he goes. The bitch this, the fucking two-timing bitch that. Kebabs her dinner, like a ritual, not charley’s type of dinner, no way, just the thought’s enough, but her, after the beers and that, and the beers coming after a full day on her back and that, you could see why she and kebabs got on, charley’s thinking, even though it was still on her breath and in her mug round his. When she was flat out, last of the day, with him on top and her eyes was closed, charley could normally see the bits of beast still trapped in her teeth, and sometimes a bit of shredded lettuce but mostly she chucked that on the broadway. Fucking lettuce. So charley’s headlong up the broadway following a trail of the green stuff. Swings in oyzer’s.

Charr-lee, goes oyzer coming up from below with a rag and a stainless made in Sheffield. Then comes the bag of shredded lettuce. He’s wiping the counter and grinning like kebabs was the food of love. Charr-lee, he goes, good to see you my f-

Yeah, goes charley. You seen my woman?

Oyzer shrugs, says: she come she go.

Yeah, goes charley looking out at traffic, the whole of it flashing past, the times they had, the good ones and the others ones, the one slap he had to put on her, the one knock, to straighten her out which she done like a pro and even said sorry for making him. The times they had. He was there when she DIY pierced her nose, done it to be special, like she done the pain just for him. She wasn’t even high or nothing. She come she go. Yeah, maybe, charley’s thinking, but course he can’t give this relationship up as easy as a picking in the arthur. It was more than that.

It was a good relationship. Maybe the best he done with a woman.

You remember when she come? goes charley.

Yesterday maybe, goes oyzer.

Maybe yesterday, charley’s thinking. Was she alone?

Man with her. I thinking new boyfriend maybe.

He’s grinning and wiping and grinning cos he’s only joking but it cuts charley like oyzer’s stainless made in sheffield.

He ain’t no boyfriend, goes charley.

And he’s out the stinking slaughterhouse before oyzer can say chilli sauce.

Fucking bitch, charley’s thinking. She cut and run and now she’s with the new king of the swingers. Was what mags meant, not just a big one but a bigger one than charley. But don’t matter to charley how big cos charley’s headlong again, butt where his tooth should be, arse out, pins working the pavement, a bit drunk and a bit mad and a bit armed. He always says he’s low-key, that he don’t do famous, that he don’t do hero. But course all the regs know charley won’t be done till he is done. He live the life, it is said. And course he’s only heading one place, to the prop he knows. He’s spied it once, twice, looking for an angle. Went there, once, twice, as a punter, in among the fumey rooms and lats and liths, just to check the talent. And now he’s heading back with a thin stainless made in sheff concealed in the sleeve of his charity jacket. Cut a piece of lamb, charley’s thinking, or mutton, like they say in the arthur. Whichever, he’s out to kebab someone.

Next thing he’s busting in the crime-scene-to-be, bold as, his stainless still sleeved. Only it’s not the way he planned. First, it’s dark as a reg’s arse. Second, there’s too many doors to them fumey rooms. He bust in and out, does charley, slamming and slashing. The soft furnishings take the punishment but in the dark he only cut the wrong lat. Mistake her, he does, for a lith or a rom. Stumbles out. Chucks the stainless in a bush.

Some citizen call the ambo. They take her away, the corpse. Local rag carries a pic the next week, unknown victim, unknown assailant, motive not robbery. Only the pic is of charley’s lat, the one he was after. Turn out someone done her same time as charley done someone else. One corpse missing wrong name. One in the papers wrong name. Crazy world.

Thing is, Charley’s made his move and messed it. So charley do what charley must: he disappear a bit to avoid losing face or losing his face. A bit meaning a night and two days. That’s when he head back up the arthur cos where else?

Mags is in, as per, except she’s dressed in black.

All the mis in the world, she goes. We thought you done it, charley. We thought it was you.

You sayin I didn’t?

They found a stainless, goes one of the regs.

Who’s stainless? goes charley.

We thought it was yours, goes mags.

No, goes charley, what I ask you was, who is stainless?

Nobody says nothing to that. Course they don’t.

What name she go by? goes one of the regs to ease the prickle.

Says nothing does charley.

She was known as, goes mags, if you know what I mean.

Known as ‘known as’, goes the reg.

And everyone would have had a bit of a laugh about this ‘known as’ on account of having been personal with a ‘known as’ or two. But course nobody laugh in front of the known-as’s ex-bloke.

So everyone goes quiet.

Yeah, maybe she was known as ‘known as’, goes charley necking another short, but I loved her.

The statement sort of blindsides everyone. Then charley adds:

I fuckin loved the bitch.

Well, whatever, cos the love of charley’s life, or someone who look like her, will be smoke tomorrow. There’s one or two taking the bus up the crem for three. Mags will. She likes a trip up the crem. She goes nostalgic. But don’t count on charley being there. He won’t be in the arthur neither. He’ll be up over the broadway walking headlong, butt where his tooth was, arse out, pins working, on the hunt for love.

Edinburgh pub crawl/video shoot

Wandering around Edinburgh pubs and chatting to random drinkers - it's a hard old life, I tell you. No serious, this was work! Shooting the new book trailer with Stephie and Bert (thanks for all your hard work both of you) and an ever helpful Mr Pete (Martin) - cheers, mate.

PUSH-UPS: Caro Ramsay

So, what you pushing right now?
Quite honestly I am trying to push my brain into gear. I’m doing a final edit on book 4, writing book 5 and researching book 6 so I am confused about a lot of things. Not that that’s unusual.


What’s the hook?
Glasgow gangland, imagine Arthur ‘gangster’ Thompson meeting serial killer Peter Tobin in the Barrowlands Ballroom in the late sixties. Thompson went on to rule Glasgow for many years, Tobin went on to kill, maybe 30 -40 women. If Thompson had known what Tobin would become … In there somewhere is an alternative reality of morality and justice.


And why’s that floating your boat?
Having a few friends who are cops I hear a lot about how frustrating it can be and I am sure we all know a drug dealer who walks the streets thinking they are untouchable. How nice it would be if they were touchable…


When did you turn to crime?
While in hospital for a long stay, if I hadn’t started writing about murder I would have committed a few... starting with the woman in the bed opposite me…. In fact I might have been one of the biggest mass murderers in history!


Hardboiled or Noir, classic or contemporary?
I’ll read anything. But I do find myself after reading a few serial-killers-putting-transvestite prostitutes-in-council -skip novels going back to Agatha Christie and the maid being brutally done to death with a Niblick at four and twenty past the hour. At the crime fest recently there was a fair bit of Christie bashing going on especially by the spy/ thriller writers. They said it was outdated and ridiculous. But that doesn’t stop it being a very good read and no matter what time we choose to write about, human nature does not change. The basic theme of “Murder on the Orient Express” is the same basic theme as my next book… evil is justified when faced with greater evil.


And, what’s blown you away lately?
Getting into the Bryant and May mysteries. And strangely a book called “The Glasgow Fairytale”. The book does what it says on the cover... I’ve got as far as the pigs going to the planning meeting for their houses; I think Rapunzel might turn out to be an asylum seeker and there are all sorts of sectarian issues between Cinderella and the ugly sisters!


See any books as movies waiting to happen?
Mine! Don’t all authors answer that?

Mainstream or indie - paper or digital?
Defo mainstream! Defo paper. Nothing like a paperback that been abused and well read stained with Irn-Bru and Maltesers,


Shout us a website worth visiting …
It has to be the Daily Mash. Their article about the clampdown on fake vegetarians had me falling off my seat.


Finally, tell us any old shit about yourself …
I once performed a postmortem on a Labrador! Very interesting it was too!


:: Visit Caro's official website, here: http://www.caroramsay.co.uk/

PUSH-UPS: Paul A. Toth

So, what you pushing right now?
Airplane Novel, the story of 9/11 from the only never-before-seen viewpoint: inside-out. A preview can be watched here: www.airplanennovel.com. It departs in July 2011.

What’s the hook?
The South Tower serves as your narrator, and that device allows a grand-scale vision of events from a maximum number of viewpoints and height. To the Tower, innocent and virginal, the actions of any human reflect all of humanity. No one escapes conviction. It's a crime novel. But it's also every other kind of novel.

And why’s that floating your boat?
The challenge. This is the 9/11 novel. I say so without humility and not much arrogance.

When did you turn to crime?
As soon as I got serious about writing in my early thirties, though I've written as far back as I can remember. I can type 70 words per minute with two fingers thanks to using an old typewriter when I was seven.

Hardboiled or Noir, classic or contemporary?
Noir's my first love, but I have to say that Jim Thompson was the specific influence. It's the way he subtly comments on inequities in American society. His characters are always bullshit artists. That may be the greatest American contribution to the arts: bullshit. You can't fight bullshit with art. You can only fight it with better bullshit. That's what Thompson's characters do.


And, what’s blown you away lately?
Dialogues with Marcel Duchamp. What intrigued me was his absolute nonchalance. This seems to me the best attitude towards life: nonchalance. You get kicked around. So what? Wear steel clothes. You don't feel like writing today? Don't. Nobody will notice. Nobody will notice unless you do it when you don't want to do it. It's like sex; the other person always knows when you're not in the mood. Nonchalance is the goal. I'm nonchalant about getting there.

See any books as movies waiting to happen?
I'd take the money, but I won't play the tables. I don't like the odds. I don't play the lottery, either. But if Ed McMahon rises from the dead and comes knocking, I'll answer the door.

Mainstream or indie - paper or digital?
Indie. Raw Dog Screaming Press had the guts to publish Airplane Novel. The majors sent two-page letters praising it and bailed because as usual they can't sell anything they haven't sold before. Digital or paper? I prefer paper. It's the only time my work has any gravity, unless I have to move the computer.

Shout us a website worth visiting …
http://theanarchistlibrary.org/HTML/Monsieur_Dupont__Nihilist_Communism.html. For no charge, read the excellent, if grammatically butchered, Nihilist Communism, in which two writers under the comical name of Monsieur Dupont describe why there's no hope. It's quite uplifting in its way.

Finally, tell us any old shit about yourself …
I like repetition. I like repetition. I like Steve Reich. I like rhtyhm. My daydream is to see a woman reading one of my novels on a subway, tapping her foot. I want to write like Elvin Jones played the drums. At my best, writing's a physical act.

Bad Night in Snot City by Damien Seaman

Jimmy finishes his fries, drops the empty carton on the passenger seat, fat/sugar/salt powering into his bloodstream. He turns up the car stereo, settles in for a drive, life good since Maccy Dees started staying open longer.

His pre-pay goes off. Carson calling.

‘Jimmy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You need to get up to Hound’s Gate.’

‘You telling me where I need to be these days?’

A deep breath, then, ‘Something’s happened to Karl.’

Carson’s voice doesn’t sound good. ‘He dead?’ No answer. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Dunno, Jim. You just need to get down here, okay?’

Turns out Karl isn’t dead, not quite, so Carson gets one in the gob. But Karl is critical. Can’t see him; ambulance just left. Some work colleague of his is there slumped behind a computer screen.

Jack’s there too. Greets Jimmy as he enters the room, fills him in. Jimmy goes over to the guy, who stops fiddling with shit, stands. A real Harry Potter – round-rimmed specs, striped jumper.

‘You know who I am?’ Jimmy asks. The guy nods. ‘Good. Who the fuck are you?’

‘Chris Jenkins. Karl’s boss.’

‘Call the police?’

Shakes his head. ‘Wanted to wait.’

‘And you knew to get in touch with me first.’ Pats the guy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, you did okay.’

Chris practically deflates.

‘Want to tell me what happened, Chris?’

‘He called me. I couldn’t hear anything, just groaning, so I looked at the number, remembered it was Karl’s turn working late. I kept talking, trying to get him to respond. Then I came down.’

Jimmy watches Chris as he talks. The guy notices, breaks off.

‘What did you find when you got here?’

Chris breathes deep, claws his hair. ‘He was lying there against the desk.’ Regular tan wood office desk – nothing special except Jim’s brother slipped into critical while leaning against it. Jim closes his eyes, pictures the scene. Chris clams.

Jimmy opens – ‘Keep going Chris’ – closes his eyes again. Needs a lot of prompting, this guy.

‘He wasn’t moving.’

‘How long it take you to call once you got here?’

‘Maybe five minutes.’

‘Burglars?’

‘Reckoned you’d know. While I was waiting I looked around. Couple of keyboards missing, shit like that.’

Chris sounds about twelve when he swears, a kid papering over his fear. Jimmy smothers a grin. ‘Touch anything?’

‘No. I wrapped toilet paper round my hands.’

Pats Chris’ shoulder again. ‘Give us twenty minutes, then call the blues.’

Jimmy tells Jack and Carson he wants partial clean up, no fingerprints. Nice and Connery.

‘And if Karl kept any of his shit here we have to find it.’

Jimmy sweeps over the room, not sure what he’s looking for. No evidence of raisins or wraps – but wouldn’t be if it was burglary. Could it be an innocent office job?
How much is there in that kind of shit?

Turns to the door; metal frame, crumbling plaster, scratches on the lock. Crowbar, most likely. Could’ve broken in using a fucking credit card the door looks so weak. The crowbar for show maybe, to cover an inside job, or maybe they brought it not knowing what to expect.

One guy? – scratch. This stuff – value in bulk – needs two or more. Plus Karl could’ve taken a loner. Say what you like, Karl was alright in a scrap. Is alright in a scrap.

There’s blood on the carpet, some desk-spatter. Seeing it, Jimmy knows for sure: two guys with a crowbar. He calls the others, wraps the search.

‘Fucking office burglary is all,’ Carson says. ‘Karl must’ve disturbed them.’
Pride in Carson’s eyes. Jimmy doesn’t like it: ‘Only if it was burglary.’
Jack: ‘Inside job?’

Jimmy pauses. ‘Maybe someone was bribed. Staged a break in, waited for him to arrive.’

Carson’s face says he doesn’t like where this is going. ‘Set up Karl? Why?’
Jack nods at Chris. ‘Him?’

Jimmy shakes his head.

‘Crowley?’

Gordon Crowley: Jimmy’s biggest customer. Outgrowing the Bestwood estate, stepping on toes. Bad for business.
‘Listen Jimmy, why don’t you come to Ali’s with us?’ Jack says.

‘No, I’ll catch up.’

Jack: ‘We want to go golfing’ – sideways glance at Chris – ‘get this off our minds, yeah?’

Carson: ‘We know some guys dropping by Ali’s tonight might be good to play.’

Jimmy: ‘When?’

‘Hour or so.’

‘Don’t let them leave before I get there.’

The guys disappear. Jimmy shakes Chris’ hand, leaves a wad of fifties behind.

‘Don’t forget to forget everything you’ve just heard, alright Chris?’ Leaves Chris speechless.


A drive does nothing to clear Jimmy’s head. Opens the glass door of Kebab Ali’s Southern Fried Chicken on Mansfield Road. Couple of drunks in the place stripping skin off their chicken.

Ali’s cousin Jamine manning the counter. Jimmy greets him, flips the hinged counter-top and heads to the back office.

The office is small, a sofa along the nearest wall, Ali in a revolving leather chair behind his desk, Jack and Carson facing him.

‘Ah, the man himself!’ Ali’s ballooned since the good-old when his dad died and left him the place. Beer down on desk, Ali walks over, embraces Jimmy. ‘Sorry about Karl. How are you feeling?’

Jimmy gets a whiff of body odour. ‘How do you think?’ Harsher than intended. Ali looks to Carson. Fuckers been talking about him.

‘Tell me about Carson’s friends,’ Jim says. Ali hesitates. ‘Our new golfing partners?’

‘Oh them. Friends of my sister’s son.’ – Jim rolls his eyes – ‘No, hear me out Jimmy. They’re good lads.’

‘Just how old are they?’

A knock at the door. Jamine enters. ‘They’re here.’ Leaves keys for Ali, goodnights-it and leaves.

Jim and Ali go to the front of the shop, most of the lights already off. The newbies can’t be more than sixteen. One’s black, one white: Whitey’s facial hair inbred-wispy. Baggy jeans groin-belted; exaggerated limps. St Ann’s wannabes looking to make a name.

Whitey doesn’t like what he sees either.

‘Yo Ali,’ he says, taking his eyes off Jim. ‘Fuck is this?’

Black dude sniggers. Fucking hilarious.

Jimmy: ‘Hey arsehole, I’m right here.’

Whitey eyeballs him. ‘Well, better get out of my face. I don’t deal with lackeys.’

Ali’s radiating heat.

‘You some kind of badass, right?’

Kid pulls a knife. Jim strikes with the heel of his hand. Whitey’s nose shatters. He drops the knife. Jim pulls the kid close, bollock-mashes him with his knee.

Whitey goes down. His friend has stopped sniggering, face proud, not backing down.

Jimmy likes this kid a lot better.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jackson.’ Itching with tension but holding back; guts and brains. Jimmy likes him even more.

‘Whitey’s out. You still in?’

‘If Jimmy’s okay with that.’

‘Jimmy’s okay with it. You look a lot smarter than your friend. Got anyone to do the job with you?’

‘No one worth a damn.’

‘Should be easy enough. One guy.’ Kid nods. ‘Get rid of Whitey. Someone’ll brief you in a minute.’

‘Sure.’ Jackson grabs his friend under the armpits, starts dragging. Jimmy goes back to Jack and Carson.

Jimmy to Carson: ‘That the best you can come up with?’ Carson doesn’t respond.

Jack: ‘Black kid looks alright.’

‘Probably still in fucking school.’

‘So he gets caught, he’s a minor. He wouldn’t dare spill. Even if he did he doesn’t know who you are.’

Jack’s right, as usual. Jimmy turns to Carson. ‘Talk to the kid, give him what he needs. Doesn’t need to know he’s hitting Crowley’s guy.’

‘And if he does it?’

‘Maybe I’ll take him on. He waits until three, club’s closing, lots of people milling about, right? In close, makes it look like an argument, hits him and gets out of there.’ Jimmy turns to Jack. ‘Got a putter?’

Jack pulls a converted air pistol out of his coat pocket, hands the pistol to Carson.

Jimmy catches Carson by the arm. ‘Give him a prepay, since he’s flying solo. Give him your number to call. Don’t write it down or put it in the phone memory. Make him remember it. Don’t give him the putter till you’re on the way.’

Carson gets going.

Jack: ‘Take it easy on Carson, Jimmy.’

‘Bullshit. He brings me kids for man’s work and I’m supposed to be okay with that?’

‘Want me to check he’s briefing the kid right?’

‘Good idea. Reckon I’ll go and see Anna tonight.’

Jack leaves. Jimmy opens a Stella, swigs deep and waits for his headache to go.


Bad dream.

Indigestion.

Or a noise.

Somefuckingthing woke him. Wind battering the window, Anna heavy-breathing.
Creaking, shuffling outside the door. Someone about to force their way in? Groping for a weapon, his fingers find a bedside table, Anna’s long-handled nail scissors. Wedges them in his fist, blades protruding.

Slips out of bed; Anna doesn’t wake. He tiptoes to the door.

Feels like a hit.

Weighing up escape routes. Door’s the only way out. Shit, should’ve woken Anna, told her to get in the bathroom. Too fucking late now.

Door handle squeaks, starts to turn.

Door opens, an outstretched hand holding a putter nudges into the room.
Jimmy braces against the wall. Gunman senses him, turns to see the nail scissors.

Can’t do much to stop the blades slicing into his neck.

Jimmy aims below the adam’s apple, scissors in, twist-pull, tears the throat out.

Warm droplets spray his face. Gunman goes down.

Crouches, catches his breath: Jackson. Flying solo for good, brown eyes glazed.
Jimmy checks his watch: 3.10. Jackson should’ve been hitting Crowley’s guy at the club. Fuck’s he doing here? And who put him on? Crowley?

Jimmy rolls the corpse in a couple of bedsheets. Then showers. Bags up his bloodstained clothes, helps Anna heave the mummified body into the bathtub.
He picks up the putter, calls Jack with his prepay, tells him to meet at the clubhouse. Then calls Carson.


The clubhouse is a nondescript semi, tidy front and back, nothing to attract attention. Registered to a false name, cash up front every month, short-term contract: no paper trail. Thank fuck for lazy landlords.

Jack is there waiting. It’s getting light. They let themselves in.
Living room is bare. Net curtains block the view in. The room south-facing, dark despite the rising sun.

Jack: ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Got them to clear out. Crowley wants our stock, so we’ll let his guys come looking for it.’ He cradles the putter in his hand.

‘Crowley? You sure?’

‘He sent someone after me this morning.’

‘Shit,’ Jack’s face is pale. ‘What’d you do? Where’s Carson?’

Jimmy tries a calming stare. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

Jimmy’s prepay rings. Jack jumps.

‘Be him now, most likely.’ Jimmy hits answer. ‘Hello?’

‘Who is it?’

Jimmy waves Jack quiet. Grins and hits end call. ‘One of Crowley’s boys.’

‘What happened to Jackson?’

A shadow on the net curtains from outside. Jimmy: ‘Shit, that’s Crowley’s mob.’

They run upstairs, stand panting in the bathroom.

‘Maybe it was Carson,’ Jack says.

Breaking glass, low voices, a series of thumps and bangs, cupboards and drawers pulled off hinges. Jimmy grins and shakes his head, holds up two fingers. The prepay goes off again. Hits answer to stop the ringing.

Someone laughs in stereo, the voice on the phone echoing downstairs. Jimmy hits end call, shuts the bathroom door. ‘Fuckers heading this way.’

Jack’s trembling. ‘Used the phone to find us. Fuck.’

No more banging or talking; footsteps reach the stairs.

Jimmy: ‘Get in the bath and stay down. I’ll shoot when they open up.’

Jack can’t take his eyes off the door.

‘Jack?’

Jack nods, steps into the bathtub, assumes the foetal. The stairs creak with the weight of the two guys on their way up.
Footsteps reach the landing. Jimmy takes a towel, wraps it round the putter in his hand.

‘Hey Jack.’

‘What?’

Jimmy leans over the bath, pulls the trigger, puts two into Jack’s face point blank.
The door opens. Carson fills the doorway, Ali behind him.
Carson: ‘How’d you know it was him?’

Jimmy wipes off the putter, checks for blood on his clothes. ‘He was the only one knew I was at Anna’s tonight, the only one could’ve sent Jackson after me.’ Chucks the towel into the tub. ‘I’m off to see Karl.’

‘Usual drill with the body?’

Jimmy nods. ‘Anna’s got one in her bathtub too.’

‘Jimmy…’ Carson struggles to get his words out. ‘Did Jack say owt about Karl? Who hit him?’

Jimmy takes a while answering.

‘Yes.’

Carson’s shoulders sag like his strings have been cut – he’s on the edge right now.

Jimmy needs to give him a focus.

‘When you’ve got rid of the mess look for another clubhouse.’

Carson nods, sets to work. Jimmy goes down the stairs, steps into the cool morning.

Almost 6.30 and the sun shines down on him. He starts humming, ‘Bring Me Sunshine’.

Maybe Karl will be okay, be able to say who did him over.

Maybe.